Oh! The Lengths He'll Go
by TheMadKatter13
Summary: The Minsk case that had caught Sherlock's attention might have been a bust, but that didn't mean the trip itself had to be. Winterlock Exchange gift for bittergreens (holmesianpose on tumblr). Johnlock. CU.


**Oh! The Lengths He'll Go**

**by TheMadKatter13**

**SUMMARY~The Minsk case that had caught Sherlock's attention might have been a bust, but that didn't mean the trip itself had to be. Winterlock Exchange gift for bittergreens (holmesianpose on tumblr). Johnlock. CU.**

**DISCLAIMER~The rights to Sherlock reside with the BBC (and probably a lot of other people that I'm too lazy to look up) and I receive no financial gain from the writing of this story.**

**AN~For bittergreens (holmesianpose on tumblr) whose submission to the (tumblr) Winterlock Exchange was "a johnlock fanart or johnlock ficlet. I welcome explicit depictions of sex! Basically bring on the romance/angst. Preferably some kind of intimate moment btw John and Sherlock. Maybe something winter themed? Like something with the snow, or the cold?" Since I can't draw, I wrote, and I hope it pleases! Also, high-fives given for those who recognize what book the title is referencing.**

**Oh! The Lengths He'll Go**

* * *

Normally, Sherlock was fairly good about shouting "Come on, John!" before he sped off somewhere. Not this time, apparently. They had just gotten out of the cab at the front door of their Belarus hotel, fresh from turning down Barry Berwick, when, without warning, the detective's head had turned and he was racing off through streets John didn't know and couldn't read the signs of since they were all in Russian. Czechoslovakian? Did Belarus have it's own language? John had no idea, and even if it he did, it still wouldn't matter since he still couldn't read any of them and Sherlock was still about to dart out of sight.

"Sherlock!" he shouted, more as a reaction in itself than actually hoping the tall git would realize he was leaving his blogger behind once more, as his friend sprinted away and he gave chase. He hadn't even seen who Sherlock was after so he kept his eyes on the great, billowing Belstaff as he squeezed between those on the sidewalk, jumped across car bonnets, and dodged angled skips. He frowned when it seemed like the buildings began to thin a bit and, if he was going the way he thought they were going based off a cursory glance at a map when they'd arrived, he was pretty certain they were headed towards a river, and perhaps a park.

Not even a few seconds later, he found he hadn't remembered incorrectly as buildings suddenly turned to trees and they passed a large wooden sign in whatever the language here was. As Sherlock ducked around a tree and under its low-hanging branches, he saw the person the detective was chasing, short, maybe shorter than himself, dressed in a grey sweatsuit, hood pulled over their head. Judging by the way they ran, it was a man. The ground below his feet was covered in grass and dirt and pine needles and leaves and blessedly free of snow, though up ahead, where the trees stopped, was piled high with the cold white substance.

The person they were chasing was plowing through and Sherlock had just reached the edge, John still too far behind his friend for comfort. Sherlock had followed maybe a meter into the snow when he disappeared from view at a speed that made John's heart stop.

"Sherlock!" he shouted again. The hooded person looked over their shoulder and he might have caught sight of a beard before their head was facing forward again, not stopping as they continued through the snow to where the trees continued. John didn't stop until he reached a hole in the slow, which, he realized with a skip of his heart, was also a hole in the ice. Sherlock and whoever he was pursuing had been running across the frozen river, and Sherlock had fallen through. He wasted no time cursing up a storm as he cleared the snow around the hole away and stripping off his clothes and shoes. Even as he took the time to do that, there was still no sign of Sherlock and while he had accepted the thought that Sherlock and him would die on a case, the thought of Sherlock Holmes dying from drowning or frostbite was almost too much to bear.

The ice was freezing under his bare feet, so cold it felt like it burned, as he crouched on the edge of the hole and found a solid grip along the edges. But if the ice was bad, the water when he slid in was so much worse-it felt like none of his muscles would work again, seizing almost as soon as he was submerged. It took him three tries to open his eyes, eyelids objecting to the temperature with near-violent blinking. Sherlock had managed to float almost a meter from the hole, feet kicking furiously as gloved hands shoved at the ice, looking for a break or the hole. The detective's moves were slow and sluggish, a combination of his heavy clothes weighing him down and the temperature of the water slowing his blood flow. A pale face surrounded by a halo of slow-moving dark curls turned towards him as he forced his legs and feet to stretch towards his friend who reached out, a weak grip curling around his ankle the only warm spot on his body.

His lungs were starting to burn as he dragged himself back up through the hole and up into the cold air, made even worse as the windchill caused gooseflesh to explode across his skin. It was somehow almost a relief to put his arms back in the water to drag out Sherlock who began to suck in breath so fast that he started to cough. As he gathered up his clothes and shoes in one hand, the other keeping a tight grasp on the Belstaff's collar, he began to shake violently from the abrupt temperature changes but he didn't let that stop him from dragging Sherlock by his collar back towards clear ground. His friend was trembling even more violently than he was but thankfully he had finally stopped coughing. John quickly laid down his clothes as a sort of a blanket against the mildly-frosted but dry ground before he began stripping Sherlock. The wet fabric was even harder to deal with than dry fabric, Sherlock's hands getting in his way as the man tried to help but couldn't, fingers refusing to bend to his will. John's were nearly as bad and it took him much too long to undo the straining buttons of his shirt, but after a few moments, Sherlock was as bare as he was. He shoved at his friend and forced him to his side on the dry clothes and curled up behind him, wrapping his arms around his waist and slotting his bent knees behind Sherlock's.

"J-J-Jo-Jo-Joh-John-n-n-n?" Sherlock stuttered out, clearly unable to stop his teeth from chattering.

"Have to make sure you don't get frostbite. That we don't both get it," John rasped in return, wrapping himself even tighter around the lanky frame, willing his body heat into the pale skin below his. He'd always wanted to wrap himself naked around his equally naked flatmate but he'd never guessed it would be to save his life.

"It's not like you to miscalculate," John murmured.

"The ice wa-was already cracked when he ran over it but it was covered by snow. I'm about a st-stone heavier than him and my weight was too much," Sherlock explained, teeth significantly and reassuringly calmer.

"Any injuries?"

"No."

"Sherlock..." he warned, voice low, too familiar with the detective's habit of ignoring whatever he could get away with ignoring.

"No injuries, doctor. Promise," Sherlock huffed, though John was quite sure he could hear amusement in the tone.

"Good," he said, burrowing further in against the cold skin. The cold had turned Sherlock's skin even paler than normal and it felt like hugging marble, and it looked just as beautiful. And as soon as the thought crossed his mind, he wished immediately that it hadn't. Despite years of using showers as cold as the water he'd just been in to get rid of unwanted erections, his recent bath was in no way a detriment to the erection he could feel forming now. He tried to subtly shift backwards to prevent it from pressing too noticeably into Sherlock's ridiculously plush rump, but as soon there was a cold breeze between them, his friend shoved his hips backwards, that same plush rump shoving right up against his cock and, caught entirely by surprise, John moaned.

"Stop moving!" he snapped. Sherlock stilled immediately, shoulders curling inwards minutely.

"Sexual intercourse would be one of the quickest courses to our goal," the detective said, calm as could be. He almost couldn't believe his ears that his friend was suggesting it. "It increases heart beat and therefore blood flow, as well as internal body temperature."

"I am not having a one-stand with you, Sherlock!" John snarled, face flushing in embarrassment and anger. He wouldn't be able to survive being allowed to have the man he loved once and never again. The same man who was now stiffening in his arms and surging to his feet. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"If you are so adverse to that suggestion, then there is no reason to remain here. I am getting dressed," he began shoving gangly legs and arms into still-damp clothes, "and returning to the hotel where I may get warm faster than the outside temperature will allow." On went the coat and scarf and gloves, looking down his nose at John, still in a semi-ball on the ground. "And now that my quarry has escaped, I need to think on what I can do to find it again before our flight tomorrow. Will you be returning with me or not?" His cold tone was painful to hear, and more of a damper on his erection than the weather. He wasted no time getting to his feet, donning his own clothes, expression shuttering into one of neutrality.

"After you," he said as soon as his coat was on.

~X~

Sherlock's mind hadn't stopped racing since he'd been laying curled up in John's arms while trying to get warm, and he swooped into the bathroom before John had even put both feet inside the hotel room. He didn't slam the door, but he did lock it before he began stripping and dropping his wet clothes where they fell. There was a light knock on the door before John's voice, John's neutral, I'm-upset-but-I-musn't-show-it voice. He had no idea why the doctor would be upset, he hadn't been the one that was rejected. But that was what he got for attempting sentiment. Mycroft wasn't wrong: caring was not an advantage. And sentiment...sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. John did not want him, and now he was left with sentiment that had no outlet. Fine. He would bury it.

"...all the way up. Sherlock? Did you hear me? Don't turn the temperature all the way up. Start it low and build it up or you'll go into shock. Sherlock? Sher-" he cut off abruptly with a sigh and then there was no more sound. The carpet in the hotel room was too plush for him to hear footsteps so he turned to the shower and kept the temperature. The shower he kept short, taking only the time needed to scrub his hair and his body before he was back out and toweling off, throwing on the robe hanging from the door. He had been too intent on escaping John that he hadn't remembered to grab fresh clothes.

He opened the door to find John on the other side, a set of Sherlock's fresh clothes in one hand and the other raised in preparation to knock. The detective didn't pause as he grabbed his clothes and swept over to his bed and flopped down. John seemed to be stuck for just a moment before his chin dropped just a millimeter and his shoulders curled in the same. Both signs of upset, but still nothing that Sherlock could determine. The door was shut softly but not locked, and the shower started just a moment later.

Despite his normal aversion to sentiment, he had been unable to prevent himself from forming some towards his flatmate. Strong, clever, loyal John. John, who never failed to amaze him, who never failed to compliment, who never failed to tell him when he thought he'd done something against the social norm. He had criticized The Woman for loving him, and yet here he was, in a similar situation with his flatmate. The only person who had managed to cause a sexual response in him.

"...lock." one word dragged him from his mind palace. No, it wasn't the word, it was how it was said. He lept from the bed and pressed his ear against the bathroom door. "Sherlock..." A low, breathy groan. As silently as he had ever done, he opened the door and slipped inside. John's silhouette was one he had glimpsed many times, this particular one not as often as the rest, but he knew it nonetheless: right arm stretched out and bracing him against the wall in front of him, the other dropped down between strong legs to grasp his erection, chin to chest and shoulders curled inwards almost defensively. "Sherlock, fucking Sherlock," John was groaning, voice low and pained, almost sad.

At once, what John had said in the park on the ground came to the the forefront of his mind like it had been stamped across his eyes and highlighted: _"I am not having a one-stand with you, Sherlock!"_ He had taken the sentence to mean that John did not want intercourse with him at all. He had thought he had misunderstood the looks he had received from time to time from his friend, that he had potentially imagined the shine in John's eyes he had thought only appeared when the doctor looked at him. He reviewed his own proposal: _"Sexual intercourse would be one of the quickest courses to our goal."_ Without prior knowledge of his...feelings, how he had phrased it sounded entirely too scientific, as if it was what he was doing only for the benefit of his health. John had taken his words at face value, not anticipating or expecting further meaning behind them. And with how often he himself expressed his disgust for sentiment, it was no wonder. He shed the robe immediately and shut the door loud enough for John to hear the click and sure enough, the man straightened into parade rest immediately

"Sherlock?"

He moved aside the curtain and John pressed backwards against the wall, cheeks flushed, eyes wide in surprise, one hand trying to cover up a thick cock, stiff and red, jutting out from his pelvis.

"How many times have I asked you not to interrupt me when I'm in the shower?!"

"I believe this is one interruption you want, John." He was careful to pitch his voice low, something he had noticed to have a positive effect on John before-accelerated pulse, flushed cheeks, bright eyes, hips shifting. It worked now, the doctor's breath hitching and his cock jumping minutely behind the poor covering of his hand. He stepped into the tub, and if John hadn't been as compact or he as lanky, they wouldn't have fit. As it was, there was barely any space between them, though it was increasing as John tried pressing further and further back into the shower wall.

"I don't-what about this could I want?" John thus far been avoiding looking anywhere below his neck, and thus had not seen, much less observed, something of great importance. It only took Sherlock one step to press John up against the wall of the shower, caging him in with a hand on either side of his head and his own erection pressing up against John's hip as John's erection pressed against his thigh. The doctor sucked in air so fast that he almost began to cough and the hand against the shower wall balled up into a fist.

"Sherlock, I don't... I don't understand."

"Perhaps I should apologize for my phrasing previously. I did not want sexual intercourse with you just to prevent freezing, much less only one time. I would be interested in frequent sexual intercourse with you." Despite his explanation, John's expression only hardened.

"So...what? You want a fuck buddy?" Now it was the taller man's turn to frown.

"I don't believe that that is the phrase that most accurately describes what relationship I hope for us to have. 'Lovers' perhaps? I suppose 'boyfriends' would be accurate though juvenile. Some would argue that we are already 'domestic partners'. What phrase would you prefer?" The shorter man had spent the last minute gaping a tad unattractively but now his mouth snapped shut and he turned his head away, flush deepening most attractively and in a way that made Sherlock want to follow it as far down as it went with his tongue, lips, and teeth.

"Um, yeah those are...ah...yeah. They're all...good, yeah... It's fine. It's all fine." The blush across his cheeks was getting darker and spreading down his neck.

"Wonderful. Now, there is something that I have been tempted to do for some time..." No point in waiting for the other man's go-ahead so he started in on what he had just been imagining, diving down to the edge of the flush along John's neck and licked along the faded line before attaching his lips and a hint of teeth, sucking gently at first then increasing suction till John was moaning with wildly and gripping his shoulders hard enough to leave marks from his fingernails. When he felt he had enough time to leave a sufficient mark, he released the flesh and leaned back to look at the beautiful, darkening spot that marked John as his.

"Perfect," he murmured, watching the flush move slowly down John's chest were pert nipples caught his attention next. He wanted to lick and suck and bite John all over, catalogue every millimeter of his skin in order, but he couldn't keep his list in line, every thought frustratingly scattered. No matter, there would be time for cataloguing later.

Sherlock wrapped his lips around the small bud and John moaned. He brushed the tip with the tip of his tongue and John's knees buckled. Tan arms wrapped around pale shoulders as pale arms wrapped around a tan waist.

"Perhaps it would be best to take this to the bed," he said, grinning up at John who could only nod at him. Keeping one arm around his doctor's waist, he turned the shower off and then nearly dragged John from the toilet to the bed, shoving him backwards onto the pillows and then crawling up after him, straddling hips barely wider than his own and letting their erections slot together. As their hips undulated, rubbing their cocks together, creating a friction that felt almost too good to handle, he became entranced this time with lips when a tongue darted out to wet them.

He had always imagined John to taste like tea and he wasn't disappointed. His tongue swept in, overpowering John's as it moved along teeth and gums and over and around the slick muscle that was his doctor's tongue. One of them, perhaps both, were moaning and he couldn't stop his hands from moving, running over skin and scars, down arms and sides, across iliac crests and up a smooth erection. John was writhing and bucking wildly under his hands, his own fingers flexing between firm and painful on Sherlock's shoulders. Suddenly, they were pushing instead of pulling and he looked up, disengaging and sitting back on his heels, unable to stop himself from gyrating his hips in a slow, frotting almost gently. John's eyes rolled back and his hips under Sherlock rocked up into the movement as his hands fell to the sheets to grip and tug. He had never looked more beautiful

"Sherlock," the older man panted. "Sherlock, hold up a minute. Stop, just stop." Sherlock gave a particularly slow undulation and John moaned, hands flying to pale thighs to grip tightly. "Please, please stop." He did stop his hips but he leaned down to press his lips to John's ear.

"If you're concerned about being the receptive partner, do not be. I've been dreaming about you being inside me for months."

_"Oh my god,"_ John moaned, hips thrusting up and slightly to the side, knocking Sherlock onto his back but the ex-soldier rolled with him, sliding between the taller man's thighs as if he belonged there, which he did, and wrapping steady fingers around biceps, only to slide them up to thin wrists, pinning them to the bed. Now it was Sherlock's turn to writhe as John leaned down to press his lips to his now-lover's ear. "I'm going to fuck you so thoroughly even Anderson will ask what's wrong when you limp onto your next case." He couldn't help but moan at the domineering words as John began to kiss his way down Sherlock's body.

"We're both clean," Sherlock muttered, right as John paused just before his erection. The doctor raised and eyebrow. "I have been testing us monthly in the hopes that you would give a sign." Now Jon laughed, and was still laughing as he engulfed the erection in front of him. The sensation was so new, the wet heat, the vibrations from the laughter, the few times he had attempted to masturbate had no standing compared to this. He wondered what if would feel like to be inside John. "Are you open to being the receptive partner in the future?" he couldn't help but ask. John laughed around his erection, causing a warm, pleasant tingling in his pelvic region.

"We can try that next time," he was promised. John lowered his head again but Sherlock slid his fingers into the short gold-blonde hair, keeping him still. When he had his attention again, he flipped them once more, poking and prodding John to slide further up the bed.

"Impatient, are we?" John chuckled. Sherlock could only smirk as he walked quickly over to his blogger's suitcase, rifling through one of the smaller pockets and producing the packet of lube he knew was in there with a triumphant smile before racing back to the bed. The other man had scooted back to prop his back up against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him and Sherlock placed a knee on either side of John's knees as he open the cap and squeezed some onto his hand, rubbing them together to warm up the cool silicone-based substance. He leaned forward just a bit to stick his rump out and slid a finger in slowly, watching John's expression carefully as he did.

"Have you ever done anything like this before?" John sounded positively breathless, eyes wide and seemingly unable to settle between looking at Sherlock's face and what his hand was doing between his legs, hand just as indecisive on where to rest.

"Mycroft was not quite right at Buckingham Palace. Sex does not alarm me but I am a virgin," he said, sliding his index finger in and out, breath and heart rate unsteady.

"Before Irene, I always thought you were asexual." John sounded as breathless as he felt.

"Before you, I thought I was too," he countered. "The Woman had no impact on me other than a mystery to be solved. Yes, I was interested in her, but not in the way I am interested in you." The flush on John's face deepened again and bright blue eyes dropped to the side. He enjoyed giving his doctor compliments when he deserved them, especially as the man didn't know how to react to them. "Have you ever heard of 'demisexual', John?" He pulled his finger out and pressed two in, eyes fluttering as he moaned, hips shifting back further to help his fingers press deeper inside. John's hands moved to his hips, steadying him as he scissored his fingers, loosening his sphincter as the shorter man shook his head.

"Can't say I have."

"It is a sexual orientation wherein a person only experiences sexual attraction once they have formed a deep connection with a person," he explained, pressing in a third finger with a minor wince. "And you are the only person with whom I have formed such a connection. It was impossible not to fall in love with you." John stilled beneath him, mouth open, eyes wide, breath faint.

_"Sherlock,"_ he breathed, eyes shining like he was about to cry. Strong hands left his hips to cup his face, drawing him down into a kiss that was as soft as the first was animalistic, each light brush of tongue on tongue enough to make his heart skipped as his fingers continued their task. "For someone who complains about sentiment so frequently, you say the most romantic things," John said, smiling. "I love you too, you git." The word was said with fondness and Sherlock withdrew his fingers, shuffling up to where the thick erection was pressing against his hole. He took it between both palms, slicking it with the lube that still covered his hands before beginning the slow slide down.

He had never felt so full in his life, so complete. Not even the silicone toys in his drawer that he had purchased after John had been kidnapped by Shan could compare to this. There was a low vibration in his chest that he finally realized was a low moan. John was silent but his jaw was clenched and his fingers around his hips would leave bruises. Far be it for him to complain. Before they arrived back in London, he wanted the both of them to be covered in so many marks that everyone could see that they belonged together.

"Holy fuck, Sherlock. You're so tight," John was murmuring, complimenting. "You feel so amazing right now. Oh my god. God, you-" he cut off into a high-pitched moan as he bottomed out, Sherlock's hands pressed to sweat-slicked and firm pectorals. "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," John was chanting through his harsh panting.

"John, you feel..." He couldn't even complete his sentence, too overwhelmed by how absolutely amazing it was to finally have John in his body.

"Yeah," his friend, no, lover, moaned in response. "For the love of god, Sherlock, if you don't move soon, I might explode." He could only nod, rotating his hips slowly, feeling the slow press of the cock inside him. WIth trembling thighs, he rose up a slight bit before dropping back down, both of them moaning loudly. "Please please please don't fucking stop," the man below him groaned when he didn't move immediately after, bucking his hips in encouragement. Shifting his weight forward onto his hands, he raised his hips again and dropped down again, repeating the action over and over until he got the hang of the rhythm John was helping to establish with smooth thrusts up. The feeling was indescribable, and he was beginning to understand why people killed over this. He didn't know what he would do if John stopped wanting him.

The thought made his heart clench hard in his chest, and that combined with a particularly hard thrust from tan hips wrenched a sob from his chest.

"John. John, I love you. Promise me you'll tell me if you ever get tired of me," he gasped out between rolls of his hips. With John, he had experienced many new feelings he'd never expected, and now insecurity had joined the lot. "Please, please promise me." John stilled beneath him, looking up at him with an unreadable expression until Sherlock's heart was as still as John's body. "John?" Without warning, Sherlock was rolled underneath his friend and was being kissed almost-violently. Only once his lungs were burning with the need to breathe did John release him and then thrust in at an angle that struck what he would later remember was his prostate but could only think of now as what made every nerve ending light up with white-hot pleasure. "JOHN!"

"You...bloody...idiot..." The doctor grunted, in time with each thrust, each thrust hitting his prostate until he was a mess of nothing but nerves and pleasure. "We've been through...everything under the sun...and you think I'll get tired of you _now_?" He couldn't answer, couldn't think, his mind, normally only clear under the influence of his beloved cocaine, was cleared of everything but John. There was a possibility he was saying something but he could only wrap his legs around John's waist, his arms around John's shoulders, nails scratching and digging in with each thrust. Then a hand wrapped around his cock and there was nothing else to the world. He was shouting and crying and chanting John's name as he came, the experience just so much _more_ than any attempt at masturbation had ever been.

John's hips continued their brutal pace, growing more sporadic until teeth dug into his neck and the hips stilled against his pelvis, a minor warmth filling him as he began sliding down the other side of an orgasm. The body draped across his was a comforting weight, and when his blogger released his neck and attempted to roll away, Sherlock tightened his legs around his waist and his arms around his shoulders, pulling the slowly deflating cock right back into his spasming hole. The other moan groaned weakly, dropping his head to Sherlock's shoulder.

"Fuck, Sherlock. Don't do that. Too sensitive," the doctor complained but obliged, burrowing a little into his broad chest. His entire body was buzzing with contentment, his head warm and fuzzy, and for the first time in some time, he could honestly say that he felt 'happy'.

"We really should clean up," he thought he heard John mumble but he was already falling too fast into sleep to respond.

~X~

"What the fuck happened to you two?" was Lestrade's greeting as they walked onto the crime scene. "Did you get attacked by a cannibal when you were out of the country?" By all appearances, Sherlock ignored the detective as he swanned over to the body at the back of the alley, but John could see the secretive twitch of his lips.

After a brief nap, the two of them had gone at it at a much slower pace, taking the time to explore each other, Sherlock more so than John with his need to catalogue even behind his ears, under his arms, the insides of his elbows, and behind his knees. They were both covered in hickeys, especially John who sported an obscenely large, dark mark on his neck, lined with teeth marks, the one that started in the shower and had been refreshed at every interval and every night since returning two days ago.

"Not really," was all John said as he stood off to the side to watch his lover work.

"John!" At the call, he rushed over to crouch by the body who was cut rather messily in half. "What do you see?" Before he could answer, Anderson spoke up from over his shoulder.

"It couldn't be any more obvious that he was murdered here. We're right off the road and that sheet of metal is covered in blood. What else is there to it?"

"Anderson, thank you for your input. I've be sure to put it to use immediately."

"Really?"

"Yes, I needed a reminded of how idiotic you were. Now go...do something else." John giggled quietly under his breath. Sherlock shot him a knowing look before gesturing impatiently at the body. Something immediately struck him as off and he frowned.

"This is in no way an accident. His skin might be separated all the way around, but all his internal organs in tact. Also, this is way too much blood for one person. And," his frowned deepened as he pulled out a glove, ducking down further to examine the rips on the flesh. From farther away, it looked ragged, messy, but up close... "This cutting was done very very particularly. Once you get closer, you can see how clean the lines are. Someone spent time carving this man up to make it look like it was an accident. I've seen staged murders before but this is a little new. Too much work for a murder of passion." Finished examining the opened body, he glanced up at Sherlock to see he how much he had missed (or gotten right, sometimes he got compliments at that too), but Sherlock was just staring at him, expression unreadable. "Sherlock?"

"John Watson, I love you and you are brilliant!" The detective surged forward, fingers tight in the collar of John's jacket as he hauled his lover forward for a brutal kiss. Right over a dead body. Not that Sherlock cared, and if he kept doing that thing with his tongue, John was this close to not caring either. The crime scene around them was deathly silent when they broke apart and stood.

"Hurry, John!" the genius called, sprinting away, past Greg, Donovan, and Anderson, as well as the rest of the NSY present, all of whom were standing and staring with wide eyes and gaping mouths, clearly struck dumb.

"You- The freak- He- Together-?!" Donovan stuttered, both her and Anderson looking ready to faint in surprise.

"John!" Sherlock's voice called impatiently from across the street. As John broke into a jog, he smirked at the trio, Lestrade's expression slowly turning to a smile.

"Good job, mate," Greg muttered as he passed, the older man clapping his shoulder. "Keep him a good man, yeah?"

_"Joooohhhhnnnn!"_

"Calm down! I'm coming!"

"You said that last night too!"

_"SHERLOCK!"_

* * *

**Well, I'm pretty sure this was supposed to be short but I'm rubbish at writing short things apparently since this ended up an even 5500. Well, I hope everyone enjoys it but most of all, I hope that bittergreens/holmesianpose enjoys it. Sorry it took so long to get out but I hope you enjoy your gift. Happy (late) Winterlock!**


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